The Carter family had built their first major medical center on the suffering of people they threw away.

And they had used the state’s own grant money, meant for public health, to finance it.

My phone vibrated in the cupholder.

The screen lit up with Daniel’s name.

My chest tightened, but I swiped the screen and answered.

“Yes, Daniel,” I said, keeping my voice cold.

“Where are my sons, Emily?” his voice was smooth, devoid of any warmth.

“They are with me, where they belong,” I replied.

“My lawyer tells me you were seen at the Westside archive clinic,” he said.

“You’re wasting your time looking through old garbage.”

“It isn’t garbage, Daniel,” I said, staring at his father’s signature on the paper.

“It’s a record of how your family operates.”

He let out a soft, dry laugh through the speaker.

“You have nothing that can touch us,” he said.

“The hearing is tomorrow, Emily.”

“By noon, the judge will sign the primary custody order, and you will be allowed supervised visits twice a month.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” I said.